


take care to leave a trace

by pearwaldorf



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: Five times the Jedi Exile kissed her companions.





	take care to leave a trace

Bao-Dur doesn’t know if it’s the circumstances in which they keep meeting or if it’s just the General, but she doesn’t sleep much. During the war it was understandable, but in the long hyperspace intervals, it seems less justified. Zabrak don’t sleep as much as humans are supposed to, so he spends the quiet hours when everybody else is resting at his workbench.

One night, the remote beeps softly in surprise. The General stands in the engine bay, her eyes dark. He recognizes the expression on her face, having seen it in the mirror more than a few times over the past decade.

“Is there anything I can do for you, General?”

She shakes her head. “Couldn’t sleep. Can I just sit here, for a little bit?”

“Of course.” She nods in acknowledgement and sits down. At first he thinks she’s going into a meditation pose, but she draws her legs to her chest, hunches over. It makes Meetra look small, drawn-in. It makes Bao-Dur realize this is the first time he’s thought of her by her name, as opposed to her title. He doesn’t know how he feels about that.

She drums her fingers against her legs as she looks around the room. A long-idle memory resurfaces: the General was a fidgeter. She had all sorts of gadgets to fuss with on her desk, and she carried a worry stone in her pocket. (It broke in half after Malachor. He saw it on her desk after she left.)

He picks up a component off his workbench and hands it to her. She looks at it, then back at him.

“To keep your hands busy. I’ve been meaning to disassemble it for parts, but I haven’t had time.”

Her mouth quirks upwards. It’s not quite a smile, but it brightens her face. “Hand me a spanner then.”

In between his own work, he keeps an eye on her. It’s not exactly meditation, but he can see the tension ebb from her body in the same way as she concentrates on taking the component apart. When she sets it and the spanner back on his workbench, there’s a calm about her that wasn’t present before.

She leans over, brushing her lips against Bao-Dur’s cheek. The kiss is tender, gentle in a way he did not expect. “Try to get some rest. We need you functional.”

“Only if you do the same.” She heads towards the captain’s quarters with a mock salute in farewell.

After he can no longer hear her footsteps, he heads for his bunk. A promise is a promise.

* * *

Meetra giggles, and it’s then that Mira realizes she’s drunk. One glass of juma juice wouldn’t be enough to get a child on Nar Shaddaa tipsy, but apparently she’s made of weaker stuff in this regard.

“This is seriously the third time you’ve had a drink? Ever?” Atton’s eyes look like they’re going to start out of his head.

“‘S not like there was much alcohol at the Academy! Very distracting. Bad influences on padawans.” Her voice changes, and Mira wonders which of her instructors she’s mocking.

“So what was the first time you had a drink?” Mira asks.

“At the Academy, of course. Somebody snuck in some Corellian-- I don’t even know what it was, but it smelled and tasted like ship fuel. Not that I’ve tasted ship fuel, but like I imagined it would.” She makes a face. “It was… unpleasant.”

“And the second time?” Atton prompts.

“Malachor.” Meetra’s voice is flat. “Drank ‘til I blacked out. Woke up feeling like a boma trampled my head.”

“Sorry I asked.” Mira’s voice is quiet. Atton pushes another glass in front of Meetra. Then he looks at Mira and pushes one in front of her too. Meetra downs it rather quickly. Her face is bright red at this point.

“There’s not a day, not an hour when I don’t think about it.” She presses her forehead against Mira’s shoulder. She sounds so miserable Mira can’t summon up her usual anger when she thinks about the situation. It is some small, cold comfort to know Meetra carries the weight of Malachor with her too.

Mira reaches out and strokes Meetra’s hair, and she makes a noise, pleased. “You’re too nice to me, Mira.” She feels Meetra shift, and then she’s right there, their mouths pressed together. She tastes like juma and something else, sweet and dizzying in a way that has nothing to do with drink. Mira pulls away, and Meetra actually pouts. It’s almost enough to make her lean back in.

“Come on, I think you’ve had a bit too much,” she chides. Meetra’s resting her head on the table and not disagreeing.

“Atton, a little help?” He helps Mira lift her up and they walk Meetra to her room, making sure she has a glass of water and some painkillers.

When they’re both outside, Atton opens his mouth. Mira shoots him a glare. “Not a single word.” For once, he listens.

The next morning, she sees Meetra clutching a cup of caf like it’s the only good thing in the universe.

“How you feeling?” Mira asks.

“All right, I guess?” The way she grimaces she’s probably not, but sometimes you have to let people have their illusions. “I didn’t do anything embarrassing, did I?”

Mira thinks of how soft her lips were, the smell of whatever she washes her hair with filling her nose.

“Nothing you need to feel bad about.”

Meetra turns back to her caf. “Good.”

* * *

Mical hits the stop button on his datapad and Meetra rises from the chair in his room, stretching with great relish. Normally they conduct these interviews at the table in the mess, but it has been taken over by Canderous, who has spread a wide array of mechanical parts on its surface. Mical is grateful she is amenable to recording as much as she recalls about the Order and its practices, even when it’s obvious the memories are unpleasant. He has not quite summoned the courage to ask her why. (He’s still a little in awe of her, despite knowing what she looks like before a shower. That first impression when he was younger has never really faded. Truth be told, he’s not sure he really wants it to.)

Normally when they are done, she goes back to her quarters or conducts her rounds of the Ebon Hawk. Today, she curls up in the chair, legs tucked under. She looks relaxed, at ease in a way he rarely sees. Meetra pillows her head on her arms, watching him, but to what end he does not know.

“I’ve talked long enough today. You should tell me a story for once.”

“About what?”

She thinks for a moment. “Something about Nomi Sunrider. I loved hearing about her when I was younger.”

He’s not sure what prompts him, but he goes into the story where Nomi and the fallen Jedi turned Sith Lord Ulic Qel-Droma met again on the Jedi library planet of Ossus. It was the first time they’d encountered each other since he escaped his trial in the Galactic Senate, where he taunted both her and his brother Cay to attack him if they dared. Neither of them could bring themselves to do so.

Cay thought his brother had returned to the light, but soon found he was mistaken, at the cost of his life. Ulic was suddenly overcome by remorse and wept as he clutched his brother’s corpse. At this time, Nomi came across the scene. Shocked and horrified, she imprisoned him in a wall of light and stripped Ulic of his ability to sense the Force. Recovering enough to lead the Jedi forces to Yavin 4, they defeated Exar Kun. He wandered the galaxy for a decade, before settling on the ice world of Rhen Var.

It takes a few seconds before she realizes he’s stopped talking. “There are so many stories of Nomi Sunrider, and Ulic Qel-Droma. Why did you tell me this one?”

“Because she was the catalyst for redemption.” He’s about to launch into the rest of the tale: how Nomi’s daughter Vima came to Rhen Var seeking a master, and convinced Qel-Droma to teach her despite his lack of Force ability.

“I know the story, Mical. We all learned it.” She smiles, a bit ruefully. “Besides, redemption can’t come from an outside force. Forgiveness, yes. But redemption? One has to want to change first, in here.” She taps her sternum.

“Would Qel-Droma have sought redemption even without losing his connection to the Force?” He wonders.

Meetra looks at him. “Even without the Force, he would be able to understand the consequences of his actions when he turned to the dark side. That’s not something that sits lightly on you, and if there was any sense of remorse, I would think he would have tried to atone for his wrongs. At least, if I were in his place.”

Mical reaches out, grabs her hand. “It’s not a weight you have to carry by yourself, you know. I-- We are all here to help.”

She kisses his hand, brushing his knuckles with her lips. “That's very sweet, Mical, and I appreciate the thought. But some burdens you can't shoulder for others, no matter how much you'd like to.”

She gets up out of the chair. “I’ve stuck around too long already. There are things I need to do. Thanks for the story.” A quick smile, and she’s gone.

* * *

“I spoke to Admiral Onasi today,” Meetra says. She’s sitting on a bench in the courtyard, the one all their rooms open out to. Atton has come to like this bit of the Academy very much, if only so Meetra has some place to get away, however briefly. She seems lighter here, more relaxed.

“Yeah?” Atton’s spoken to him briefly, mostly to answer questions about things someone like Onasi wouldn’t have any expertise about, like smuggling or the current state of the power struggles on Nar Shaddaa.

“He asked me if I’ve heard from Revan.” She sounds surprised.

“It’s been… a while.” Atton realizes they’ve been back from Malachor for almost two years. Their work reestablishing the Jedi continues, although it’s like pulling teeth. It’s strange how all the stupid fiddly stuff became so routine, almost humdrum. “Have you?”

“Why he thinks I have some special direct frequency to her I’m not sure.” Meetra rubs her temples. “If I could have reached out to her, wouldn’t I have done it by now?”

“He loves her. He misses her. He’s probably grasping at any connection he can think of.”

She leans back on the bench, against the wall. “I haven’t seen her since Malachor. The first time, I mean. I miss her too.”

“You were close?”

Meetra gets soft and wistful in a way he’s not sure he’s ever seen. “Have you ever met someone and felt like they were a missing part of your soul? A place you didn’t know was empty until they filled that gap?”

He raises his eyebrows. She’s not exactly prone to poetics. “Not really, but that sounds pretty nice.”

“She was my mentor, my sister. Everything I’ve taught you all is in part because she taught me. If she’s out there, I have to find her.”

Atton feels something ripple through the Force at her words. It feels significant in a way he can’t see the shape of yet, but he knows with utter certainty she’ll be successful.

“You will. I can feel it.”

Meetra smiles and leans over to kiss him on the cheek. “I wish other people had the confidence in me that you and the others do.”

“If they weren’t stupid, they would.”

She laughs and gets up off the bench. He tries to commit the sound to memory, because she does it far too rarely now.

* * *

Something is coming. Visas feels it in the Force like a distant storm: portentous, threatening immense destruction. Meetra feels it too, judging by the way she is restless all the time now.

What remains of the Academy and Temple are still fragmented and hostile to Meetra. Some days she simmers in frustration, until Atton or T3 says something to make her laugh. Visas prefers the frustration though; the days she’s quiet are almost unbearable.

One day, she takes the Ebon Hawk. The flight plan says she's going to Coruscant. Visas reaches out to/with the Force, asking it for any information about what lies ahead. Prepare, it says.

Meetra returns to Dantooine. She says very little, and spends a great deal more time by herself. Visas comes across her meditating in one of the little gardens, the one with the rilling stream and lotus blossoms. This is Visas’s favorite place in the Academy, and she is glad it brings Meetra some comfort as well.

Visas sits down on one of the benches and reaches out with her senses. A flash of a star map, with no systems she is familiar with. A pale woman holding a mask, and a voice crying out in pain. A crystalizing resolve, and a certainty that Meetra knows what she has to do.

“You’re leaving,” Visas says.

“I am.” Meetra’s voice is sad, resigned, and it makes Visas’s chest ache. She gets off the bench and sits down next to Meetra. The stone is warm from the sun. Meetra reaches out and takes her hand.

\--

The day arrives, and Visas and the others all cluster together outside the Ebon Hawk. Meetra calls each of them up to the top of the Hawk’s boarding ramp, where nobody can see or hear them from the outside.

“Let me come with you.” Meetra is her teacher, her friend. Visas would not be parted from her.

“It’s dangerous.”

“Everything we have done has been so.” Does the moth care if it is consumed in the light it seeks, adores?

“Where I am going, I can take no one I care about.” Visas thinks of Meetra’s laugh during training, the squeeze of her fingers as they walk in the corridors of the Academy. To be alone again, after knowing this kind of fellowship, camaraderie, love? She is a stronger person than Visas could ever be.

Meetra’s hands bracket Visas’s face. “I need you to stay here, and train those who will come after.”

“After what?”

“A war is coming, Visas. One that makes the Mandalorian and Jedi conflicts look like practice skirmishes. Someone needs to train soldiers.” Her thumbs brush Visas’s cheeks, and she tries not to lean into the touch. “Will you do this for me?”

“If it is important to you, I will.”

Meetra’s lips are warm as she presses a kiss to Visas’s forehead, through the veil. It feels like benediction, but also apology, a plea for understanding. “Thank you.”

Visas walks down the ramp, and wishes she could cry. But since she cannot, she walks back to where the others are. She will need help, if she is to raise an army.


End file.
